


Inflatable Chihuahua with a Puncture

by oneatatime



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: I don't judge, M/M, apart from the time he tried rhubarb eclairs, but if you don't like it, hope you're all having the right amount of chocolate for you, how's everyone doing today, in which Anthony Janthony Crowley makes one of the biggest mistakes of his life, la la la, this is a first time sex fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:55:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23223622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneatatime/pseuds/oneatatime
Summary: Crowley's a fucker. He likes fucking.He also likes Aziraphale.So it shouldn’t be a big deal to put those two ideas together and fuck his best friend, right?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 128





	Inflatable Chihuahua with a Puncture

It’s not supposed to be like this. 

Crowley fucks. He’s a fucker. An annoying fucker, a nosy fucker, a noisy fucker, a fucking fucker, and all kinds of different interpretations of the word ‘fuck’. He is also, when you come down to it, an _experienced_ fucker. Fucking is fun! He fucks people of all sizes, all shapes, with whatever between their legs. He likes them all. There’re some things that make him hotter than others (like a suggestion of a forked tongue, or a particular jauntiness to the hips) but anything makes him hot, used the right way. With the right kind of mischief and absolutely no intent to see each other again. He likes everything that involves orgasms and squishiness and that little ah, ah, ah sound when the fucking’s going superbly well. 

He also likes Aziraphale. He likes doing all kinds of ridiculous things with him, such as watching sunsets. Talking to ducks. Watching him go into raptures about some kind of balsamic reduction over something inhuman done to artichokes. Pretending to care about books. Poking at his attempts at supporting the ineffable plan (which, really, can go and get effed as far as Crowley’s concerned). 

Aziraphale is appallingly embarrassing, and also the most fun he’s ever had. 

So it shouldn’t be a big deal to put those two ideas together and fuck his best friend, right? 

* * * 

Aziraphale actually clasps his hands together and gives him a delighted look when he suggests it. Because his best friend is an immortal, fierce, angel of the Lord capable of melting lower forms of demonic life with a flick of a finger, and is also an orphan from one of the most egregious of the Disney musicals of the sixties who gushes over nothing much like a, erm, like a gushy thing (metaphors are hard). ~~It's only sex, after all.~~ All Aziraphale needs is a flat cap, a lollipop, and a dab of brown marker along his cheekbone that's supposed to look like dirt.

Aziraphale closes the shop, finishes his eclair (because he's still Aziraphale, after all) and drags Crowley upstairs. Crowley yips and squeaks, aware that he's sounding like an inflatable chihuahua with a puncture, then eventually manages, "You don't want to talk about it first?" 

"We can talk as we go," Aziraphale says cheerfully, booting the door closed behind him. The bed is neatly made, with something horrible as a bedspread. Crowley has a horrified feeling somewhere in the pit of his stomach that the description of it involves the words 'chintz' and 'lemon-peach'. Aziraphale clicks his fingers and the covers tuck themselves back. "You suggested it, so you obviously want to. You can say _stop_ , or _no_ , or _not quite like that_ , or _ow ow ow get off my hair_ at any point, though?" 

Crowley responds to Aziraphale's concerned, enquiring look with a weak thumbs up. He's not weak about the consent side of things. He wants to, still. Genuinely. He just... had expected to have a teensy bit more control at this point. Usually, when he's fucking someone, or they're fucking him, he's the chooser or he's the prize. And he has power in either case. He likes seeing his partners get off and he likes getting off, and then it's done and over and he's on his merry little way. 

Aziraphale is different.

Aziraphale's _always_ different. 

"Here, let me,” Aziraphale protests amiably, fussing at Crowley’s hands as Crowley tries to take off his own jacket. 

Aziraphale is soft. So soft. It’s intriguing, a delicious contrast to his own angles, and he allows - allows! like he's some kind of pet! - Crowley to assist him in taking off his own ridiculous layers. Really, who needs a tan jacket, a white, velvet waistcoat, an embroidered shirt, a vest, and that beautiful chest and stomach and shoulders? He shouldn't wear clothes so often. 

Aziraphale is also bossy, and picky, and he keeps _treasuring_ Crowley as he lays him down on his stupid pink squeaky bed, and what in the name of pineapple on pizza is Crowley supposed to do about that? Aziraphale kisses his way down Crowley's front, and he nips at a hipbone, and when Crowley's just starting to dissociate nicely (because people doing things to him is fine, it's normal), there's a warm, soft hand finding his and warm, soft eyes looking up at his to check if he's, "Quite all right, dear?" 

He gazes back, and can't help but smile, and then Aziraphale takes him into his mouth and Crowley's hips buck off the bed. 

Five seconds or five hours later, there's a warm, soft face pressed trustingly against Crowley's neck, and Aziraphale shudders as he comes inside him. The bed squeaks again as he sags against Crowley. There's stickiness between them from Crowley's own toe-curling orgasm, but Aziraphale isn't disgusted or turned on by it. He just accepts it. He accepts Crowley. He's comfortable with Crowley as though this is a natural part of them being together. Just as natural as the eclairs and the bickering and the ducks.

Comfort isn't right. (Is it?) 

Crowley kisses Aziraphale's hair, and strokes his back, enjoying the softness of his angel's skin. After another five hours, or five minutes, Aziraphale cranes up to kiss him. 

It’s not supposed to be like this, he thinks miserably, as he rests his forehead against Aziraphale’s. They pull back enough to meet each other’s eyes. Aziraphale whispers conspiratorially, “You are _delightful,_ ” and to Crowley’s great horror he finds himself giving the softest, softest smile. It's not supposed to be mutual, and giving, and sweet. 

It’s not supposed to be this _good_. 


End file.
